Rellik - The First Adventure
by PaganMommyofOne
Summary: Anya was perfectly content to stay in her New York apartment, drink her coffee, and do her job. But when she flies to London to say goodbye to her dying grandmother, she finds herself the focus of a virtual criminal. With Sherlock's skills and Anya's unusual talents, they begin to piece together an ever-growing criminal network. So vast, they need to work together to stop it
1. Chapter 1

London.

It always seemed so foreign when I was growing up. A place my grandmother spoke of with a deep longing that made it seem magical. But when my grandfather died, she moved back to the city she loved so much, and our contact was limited. The magic of London was lost and replaced by the jaded mind-set that it was just a city. Living in New York, the thrill of large metropolitans turned into minor aggravation.

Needless to say, I wasn't expecting much as I waved a taxi and gave the driver the address my mother was having me meet her. I hoped that she was just going to give me the rundown of the next few days and let me find a hotel to stay at. I was exhausted and in no mood to make small talk.

I swiped open my phone to take it off airplane mode and text my mother that I had made it past customs and was on my way. While I was midway through thumbing the letters, it vibrated and the notification popped at the top of the screen to indicate I had a new text. I ignored it and continued typing. Then it did it again and again. This was no need for alarm as I had just turned my phone back on from a lengthy flight. Finishing my note to my mother, I swiped open my inbox to see that all three messages were from the same person - an unknown number. Now this was slightly off, but again, nothing to freak out over.

I opened the first up, prepared to politely tell someone they had the wrong number, but the words startled me.

 _"Come at once. Your mother is hysterical. SH"_

 _"It is boring. SH"_

 _"Are you tip toeing through customs? SH"_

I pushed a heavy breath out of my nose and shifted in the seat, coming to the conclusion that it had to be one of my distant British relatives that I would be expected to make small talk with. The taxi found its way to an older part of the city with tall, Victorian houses and faded street signs. I had of course heard about the dreary weather of London, but being in it was a whole other story. It looked like a picture one of my college friend's would paint.

The house the driver pulled up to one of the larger houses on the street that looked like it had once been painted a brilliant blue that had since faded into a dull grayish color. Katherine, my mother was already out the door with an umbrella and running through the overgrown yard to meet me before I could count out the correct money to give to the driver (though in typical American fashion, it did take me an extra moment to be sure I had the correct amount in British currency).

"Anya, how was your flight?" she asked, pulling me into a tight hug that was hard to return with one of my arms pinned to my side and the other carrying my suitcase.

"As well as to be expected," I answered, pulling back to look her over. There were dark circles around her eyes and her wrinkles looked deeper. Her hair was matted and in need of a brushing. She looked absolutely exhausted. I got the call at five this morning to take the first plane out of Newark but she had been summoned long before. "Is David coming?"

"I doubt it. I told him I would pay for his ticket but he said that he had exams this week," she answered, tugging my arm. My knock off canvas sneakers didn't keep out the water that coated the jungle made of grass. It was October and there were no exams; my brother was lying. I didn't blame him. I didn't really want to be here either - as cruel as that sounds.

"So how is she?" I asked a bit quieter.

Katherine's greeting smiled morphed into a frown. "Not out here. Come in and say hello to everyone and then we'll talk."

I wanted to protest and tell her that I just wanted to say hello to my dyeing grandparent and then find a hotel to take a nap in, but that was not appropriate. So I put on the best smile I could offer and followed her through the door frame, trying to stay as much under the umbrella as I could.

The greeting was overwhelming. Second cousins, third cousins, great aunts and uncles, all with accents and the bright green eyes and brilliant red hair of my mother's side, introducing themselves and saying that they were so happy to meet me. It reminded me how much I disliked pleasantries. I had to hide my discomfort of physical contact. Not to mention I felt more than a little out of place. My mother had the American accent, but she was a mirror image of my grandmother (and everyone else in the room). I had taken from my father's side of the family: chestnut brown hair, plain brown eyes, skin that could neither achieve the creamy paleness of my mother's nor the tanned tone of my brother's, scrawny, short, quiet… basically the polar opposite of every other person in the room.

Someone had taken my suitcase and coat. Someone else offered me tea. Alyssa I think her name was? Either way, I declined and caught my mother's eye. "May I please go see her? I've come all this way."

She tried to smile but it looked like a nervous grimace and gently guided me through the crowd to the set of wooden stairs that looked far too old to be walking on. I could understand her nervousness. When my grandmother had first moved, I had been intrigued by the thought of writing letters back and forth. But that became tedious as a teenager. Still, when she came to visit two years ago, my brother and I came home from school to spend time with her. Things had not gone well, to put it mildly. David had a boyfriend and I was going through a fun phase where I enjoyed dying my hair bright colors - I think it was blue that day. In the nicest term, my grandmother is "old-fashioned". That's the word Katherine would use. My choice of language in regards to her was not so kind.

Still, she was dying and my mother's mother. And, for some crazy reason not yes explained to me, my coming to London to speak to her was imperative.

As we approached the room, the sound of heavy object being tossed about became obvious. I would've heard it downstairs if it had not been for my large family all gathered into one small space. I raised my eyebrows at my mother hoping for some type of explanation but she kept her eyes focused in front of her, walking quickly to avoid everyone's gaze. The stairs only led to a maze of hallways and left me wondering what in god's name the architect was thinking.

"I know you're wondering why I told you to get here as soon as possible," Katherine said in a hushed voice.

"My grandmother is on her deathbed?" I answered. She gave me a sour look so I quickly justified it. "That's a reasonable assumption. Lots of people travel to see sick relatives."

"But I told you that you needed to get here on the next flight," she pointed out.

"I figured she's really sick," I suggested, examining the cabbage rose wallpaper.

"You're lying Anya," she said bluntly.

I smiled at her cheekily. "Alright. I try not to think too deeply about my inner conspiracies but you've convinced me otherwise. Why did you need me so quickly?" We walked past the door where the slamming was loudest. Apparently it wasn't worth talking about.

"Your grandmother says she's been murdered. She said that the 'machine' killed her," her voice was much too calm. She had rehearsed this conversation many times on my way here.

"I was under the impression that she was sick," I quipped, slightly aggravated that I had been called on an emergency international trip to explain that a robot hasn't killed my grandmother… who isn't even dead yet.

"She is, but when you talk to her, it seems so much more than the cancer," my mother continued, halting in front of what I had assumed was my grandmother's bedroom. The banging from the other room stopped.

"Pneumonia?" I offered.

"Good guess but no," a deep voice said from behind us. Katherine jumped while I spun around, my wet sneakers causing a squeaking sound on the floor. Standing but five feet away was tall man with paler skin than my mother's. His facial features were pointed and his hair was in curly, dark brown locks. Piercing eyes, a color between green a blue, stood out in the dingy room.

"Mr. Holmes, you startled me," my mother said, bringing a hand to her throat. He wasn't a family member nor a doctor, judging by her use of "mister".

"My apologies," Mr. Holmes replied.

Then her hand was on my back, pushing me away from the door towards the lanky man. "This is Anya. Anya, this is Sherlock Holmes."

That startled me.

"You gave him my number?" I demanded to Katherine, remembering the mystery texts I received had been signed "SH" and making the connection. It wasn't a cause to freak out earlier, but Katherine and I have had this issue before. When I broke up with Finn two years ago, she gave my number to every single man she met until I told her that she had to stop and I wasn't interested. I had left out what he had done to create the disinterest, not wanting to go into the nitty gritty of my past relationship with my mother.

"I did no such thing. What are you talking about?" she asked, holding her hands up in defense.

I opened my mouth to snap but the door behind me creaked open. "I gave him your number."

Whipping around, I found my grandmother in a pink nightgown, much too large for her, leaning against the doorframe, her cunning, green eyes boring into me.

"Mom, you're awake," Katherine was by her side in an instant but was quickly shooed away.

"I can stand on my own!" the old woman barked. "I need to talk to both of you, now that you're here."

"It's about time as well. It's tremendously boring," Sherlock groaned, casting me a sideways glance. "You were supposed to be here an hour and a half ago."

I felt trapped. I was now in between a senile old woman and a stranger who had randomly text me.

"Well are you coming?" she demanded, spinning back into her room with the door open. "Katherine, fetch us some tea."

My mom gave me an apologetic smile. "She'll do the explaining. I'll go make tea."

I had to physically fight my urge to say that there was no way I would be in any room of this house without her and twisted my lips into what I hoped would be a smile. She squeezed my hand and returned to the labyrinth of hallways while Sherlock walked past me and into the doorway. He glanced back at me and looked me over before fully entering the room.

I blew a stray hair that had fallen in front of my face away with frustration and walked into the room. It smelled of urine and mothballs – a dreadful combination that accompanied the dying. The wallpaper was a nauseating bright pink and clashed against the floral, mint green, stuffy furniture and matching bedspread.

"Shut the door Anna," my grandmother said, plopping herself down in one of the loveseats. Sherlock was intrigued by something on her mantel.

"Anya," I corrected, closing the door quietly behind me, leaning against it in case I felt the need to make a swift exit.

She ignored me and continued. "It has come to my attention that you work with machines professionally." I blinked slowly, starting to piece together that to her "machine" and "computer" were interchangeable.

"I'm a software developer," I offered pointedly. It was what I called myself when people asked, but the known term for my profession is "hacker".

"It doesn't matter," she continued. "Will you sit? You too Sherlock." She gestured to the loveseat across from her. The tall man turned on his heel and caught my eye, tilting his head at a slightly awkward angle as if he was gauging my reaction. I timidly approached the loveseat and scrunched up to one end as much as a could while he comfortably sat next to me.

Satisfied, my grandmother continued, "Whatever you call it, your mother has informed me that you're quiet good. So I asked you to come here and assist Sherlock."

I gazed over him. "I think Katherine exaggerated."

"You brought down a Wall Street criminal single single-handedly and relocated his funds to a charity in New York two weeks ago while completely staying under government raider," I felt the blood drain from my face at Sherlock's words. I didn't do that. Well, Anya Kazakov didn't. "Rellik" did that. "Don't worry; I'm not going to tattle," he continued, his mouth turning up into a closed smile before instantly dropping and his gaze returning to my grandmother. "Mrs. Hammond asked that you assist me."

"And he was against the idea until you pulled off that stunt. But you caught his interest enough for him to keep an eye on you before then," my grandmother added, her uncomfortably proud.

I was extremely uncomfortable by this point and had to put more distance between myself and my apparent stalker, so I hopped off the couch and began to pace to make it seem less awkward. "What do you mean 'keeping an eye' on me? What is going on?"

"Anna," my grandmother began.

"Anya," I corrected again.

"Don't interrupt. Anna, I've been murdered. I don't know how, but the machine is trying to murder me. Your dreadful second cousin Peter brought it for me to look at pictures on the face book. I threw the blasted thing away when it started haunting me, but I fear the damage has already been done," her tone suggested she thought the explanation made perfect sense.

I stopped my pacing and tried my best not to give her an idiotic expression. "What?"

"You're a smart girl and I know you heard me," she quipped.

A soft knocking rapped on the door. "Tea mother," Katherine's voice called.

I hurried over to open it for her, grateful for her presence.

"You have the worst timing Katherine!" my grandmother scolded. "Give the tray to Anna and go."

"Anya!" I said much louder than I had previously. "My name is Anya."

"Your mother's family resents your father. Your surname is Russian, implying your father picked out your first name, the Russian version of Anna. A painful divorce ensued between your parents, and you and your brother wanted to stay in America with him while your mother wanted to return to be with her family in England. They wanted her back as well, but she couldn't bring herself to be away from her children, so the resentment grew to the point they've been calling you Anna for years. My guess is that they address things to you and your brother with the last named Hammond."

Katherine looked like she was going to burst into tears. I glared at my grandmother, assuming she had given him this information. "Here Anya," Katherine mumbled, shoving the tray into my arms and disappearing quickly to hide her hurt. I may not look like her, but I understood the need to be alone when you were in pain – that was something she passed down to me.

I turned back around to see Sherlock and my grandmother watching me expectantly, realizing they were waiting for their tea. Walking awkwardly, I made to the coffee table, all silent except for the wood creaking under my steps. I set the tray down on the table and glanced to both of them. My stereotype of English people flashed through my mind as I assumed they held tea in some kind of high ritual. I blinked, deciding that I didn't like either of these people anyway and poured the tea in the clumsy, American way I saw fit, slightly filling with pride at the fact as if I was doing my country a great service. America, fuck yeah.

Leaving their cups on the tray, I took my own and sat back on my side of the loveseat, once again trying to shrink into a small size. "Why do you think the computer murdered you?" I asked in a grumbling tone, really annoyed that I had traveled all the way for this.

"It told me," she answered simply.

"It told you," I repeated.

"That's what I said!" she snapped.

"When? What were you doing on it?" I asked.

"I was trying to make one of the email accounts with the directions Peter gave me and the bloody thing went all black. A clock was on the screen," she answered, reaching forward to grab her tea.

This was not the answer I was expecting. "A… clock?"

"A timer," she said, taking another sip. "A countdown till it murdered me."

I blinked, trying to make mental notes. "What did you do after that?"

"I called Peter. He said to turn it off and back on again, idiot boy. The blood is on his hands too! It did the same thing only this time it had words under the time," she coughed a little before continuing, "It read 'now wither away.'"

"Where's the computer now?" I asked, shifting in my seat and leaning forward. Placing the tea back on the coffee table, I looked very closely at my grandmother.

"I told you, I threw it away," she hissed before going into another coughing fit.

"Like, in the regular trash can?" I asked, my expression twisting at the thought.

"That's where trash goes," she answered coolly.

"When?" I stood up as I spoke hurriedly.

"It's no longer here," Sherlock answered for her. "We're going to have to go to the dump to find it." He stood up in an odd manner, kipping to his feet rather than just standing and acting like this was a completely normal notion.

I frowned. "Well, I actually need to find a hotel," I said, quite ready for this conversation to be over.

Sherlock seemed slightly disappointed by this notion. "Meet me at my flat at 8am tomorrow. I should have the computer by then and we shall investigate."

I blanched, not even bothering to question how he would find the computer. "Eight in the morning!" I know I sounded like a whiny child but I wanted to sleep for a long time tonight. "I have jet lag."

He looked unimpressed. "I'll text you the details." He nodded his head to my grandmother. "Until next time Mrs. Hammond."

He left swiftly, his feet barely making sound in the old hallways, and I realized, now that he was gone, I slightly missed his presence. He was definitely one of the strangest people I've ever met, but I kind of liked that about him. And I found myself looking forward to seeing the seemingly magic man again.

* * *

 _ **Hi everyone, Annie here. My first attempt at a Sherlock story so I hope the first chapter was interesting enough to get people invested. Let me know with a review!**_

 _ **There will be an eventual Sherlock/oc romance - but it will happen later in the story. Hoping this take off enough to have sequels.**_


	2. Chapter 2

All I wanted was a cup of Sumatra Roast with hazelnut creamer. At my apartment in New York, it would've been easy; all I would have to do was zombie-walk to my Keurig, put the Sumatra goodness in its proper place and push the button. Four minutes later I would have a delicious mug of heaven.

But I was in a tiny hotel in London that was within walking distance of my grandmother's house. They had tea. Not even a cheap, watered down version of coffee that could suffice until I found a Starbucks to satisfy my need. Just tea. The lady at the desk told me that I could find a Starbucks at Charing Cross Station, but, in typical American fashion, I had no idea what that meant or where it was in relative to this hotel. In New York, there was practically a Starbucks on every block.

In my zombie-like state, I somehow managed to make myself presentable enough to leave the room (and I mean presentable in the loosest of terms).

When I hailed in the taxi, I was half tempted to direct the driver to Charing Cross Station and locate this Starbucks, but I thought better of it and gave him the Baker Street address. I was already running a bit later and really no idea how close I was to either destination.

The drive was relatively short. I spent it staring blankly out the window and ignoring my buzzing phone, knowing it was either Katheryn or Sherlock and I wasn't in the mod for either of their scoldings. I paid for my fair and turned to stare at the dark green door with copper-colored letters and a matching, yet crocked, door knocker. I shoved my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie and shifted my weight on one hip to admire it for a moment. I always had a "thing" for green doors, having been a lover of Tolkien's works since I was a young girl. I have a hard time making real friends, so I often considered Bilbo Baggins my first friend. He was followed by Harry Potter, Alanna of Trebond, Meg Murry, and a cast of fictional heroes that helped keep me company.

The door to 221B burst open without warning to display an impassive Sherlock, wearing a similar outfit to the previous day, his curls messy and draping across his face. "Are you coming up? You're already late," he quipped in aggravation.

I raised my eyebrows, tilting my head to the side. "I was admiring your door," I explained, still straining to see it, then instantly regretting my blurted statement. This is usually when the odd looks and judgmental stares. I would say something that was… well, weird. The person I was talking to would start to treat me like I was an anomaly and stop talking to me until they needed my services. This was why Bilbo Baggins was my first friend.

"You'll have plenty of time to stare at my door, but now we have a murderer to catch. Though, I assure you that you anything interesting on this slab of wood. Now, Anya, the game is one," he finished without taking a single breath. I blinked a few times, trying to let his words sink in – it wasn't at all what I had been expecting, nor was it particularly kind. He was already up the stairs and turning into his apartment, or I guess it would be called a flat.

I entered at a cautious pace, half expecting booby-traps to line the entranceway. The stairs creaked as I walked up them and I pondered if every building in London had creaky stairs, being as the only building I had been to without them was the airport.

His flat was a mess if I ever saw one. Laundry, random tools, and an atrocious small filled the decently-sized apartment to the brim. I stepped back into the hallway and took one last breath of clean air before fully stepping into Sherlock's foreign domain.

"Sherlock, really, if you were going to have a girl over, you could've at least cleaned up," a matronly voice called from the kitchen. I cast Sherlock a look before glancing to the speaker. Dressed in a floral, knee length dress and wearing too mush makeup was a little old woman maneuvering around the mess. She shuffled over when she heard me enter. "You must be Anya," she greeted. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Coffee?" I perked, forgetting to be polite. Maybe, somewhere in this apartment, either Sherlock or the little old woman had some of the nectar of the gods.

"Sorry, Dear, I don't really keep coffee in the pantry," the woman answered, her voice kind." I resisted the urge to groan aloud.

"That's quite enough, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, giving the old woman a name. "If you don't mind, we have quite a lot of work to get through."

The kindly old woman sighed, reaching for my hand. She was much too close for comfort, but I knew it would be rude to pull away. "Don't let him get to you," she told me sweetly. I offered her a tiny smile, hoping it didn't look as forced as it felt and nodded. She briskly moved past me as quietly as the old building would allow.

Once she was out of earshot, I demanded, "Who was that?"

"My landlady," he answered, only half paying attention to me. "I found Mrs. Hammond's computer." I wasn't about to ask how – I had my ideas – plus, I was rather eager to get my hands on the system. "I can't turn it on," he continued.

It was at this moment that I realized I didn't know the extent of his tech-know-how. "Did you remove the hard drive?" I asked.

He scowled at me. "I didn't get there yet. You showing up late threw me off."

"Alright," I said, deciding to accept that as truth even if it felt like a lie. "It's better to just put the hard drive in my skeleton anyway – less traceable." I slid my bag off my shoulders and onto the floor, kneeling down with it. "May I see it?" I pulled both my notebook and skeleton out of my bag as well as my mini toolkit, folding my legs underneath myself to get comfortable.

Sherlock came up to me, a black tower desktop in hands with the "Dell" logo on the front of it. "Is sitting on the floor in doorways an idiotic American thing?" he asked in a condescending tone.

"No," I answered, holding up my arms for him to deposit the computer into. It's an idiotic, Anya thing. Computer please."

His eyes narrowed again, but he did what I asked, sitting down next to me and baring most of the weight of the box. I knew I was small, but I most certainly could hold a desktop! I snatched it away, earning an eyebrow raise from him as I placed it in my lap, examining it at all angles. It was an inspiron small, standard model. Nothing at all special and in fact so overall ordinary I found myself bored at the prospect of having to examine it.

Sherlock brought his hands to his, face and pyramiding them. He was appraising my every move as I opened up my mini toolkit and took out the appropriate screwdriver to open the simple computer.

The smell hit me as soon as I pulled the flimsy front off. It was the overwhelming stench of rotting food, and I felt my gag reflex kicking in. My hand flew to my mouth and I pushed the offending object off my lap, shuffling until my back hit the door. Sherlock's hands lowered from his face as he cast me an aloof look.

"Well, that explains why you couldn't get it to work," I grumbled, my voice muffled from behind my hand.

The look in the detective's eyes could've frozen nitrogen. He was clearly unimpressed by my reactions. "What?" I demanded.

"Your deduction was brilliant," he was dryly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. I lowered my hand and glowered at him, leaning forward to continue my work.

I easily removed the processor and hard drive, the movements to do so instinctive at this point, all the while keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary; there wasn't.

"Is there a trash can for that?" I asked, pointing to the stinking, Dell skeleton. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, so I felt the need to explain. "I have everything I need, it's just a skeleton now."

"Skeletons often relay vital information," he answered sharply.

"Maybe human ones," I replied with a shrug. "Not so much computer ones." Still, I thought better than to request removal again and held my breath to take the atrocious plastic frame to the trash myself. Still in my zombie-like state, I stumbled slightly, bracing myself on the doorknob behind me. God, I need coffee. Sherlock followed me into the kitchen which was, in fact, one of the biggest disasters I had ever seen in one apartment. There were various test tubes, burners, beakers, and jars of random things filling every nook and cranny. I gazed around, trying to find something that resembled a trash bin and coming to a loss.

I turned back to Sherlock, my eyebrows raised in question, but he pulled the frame out of my hands roughly. "I'll dispose of this," he said coolly. "You continue working."

I narrowed my eyes from his gabbiness but he turned his back to me before I could protest and stormed out of the room. I grumbled to myself before going back to my position on the ground, careful to avoid the door hitting me on the back on his way back in.

That's when the real work began. I carefully put everything where it needed to be in my skeleton, making sure all the parts were clean and garbage-free. It wasn't charged so crawled around the dirty carpet until I found a wall outlet and plugged it in. Taking a rather shaky breath, I pushed the power button on with a shuddering finger; I had done this many times. Most of my money came from going through people's drives and giving the info to my employers. Even though this would be exceptionally easier since it was a barely-used home computer with no protection, it was my grandmother's. The sentimental weight of needing to make sure I didn't miss anything was heavy. I was thankful that Sherlock was currently not in the room as this was just a tiny bit easier without his scrutinizing gaze.

The computer buzzed, indicating that it was turning on. I shifted slightly, pressing "F2" and watching the screen shift various times as the processor did its job. I gnawed lightly at my bottom lip as I waited not-so-patiently for it to fully startup.

But what happened next, I had never experienced before in my career. The screen turned bright green and started flashing a code on the screen at a ridiculous speed all while making the siren sound of an impending disaster. It filled the apartment and everyone within three buildings could surely hear it.

I pushed it off my lap in surprise. What was going on? What should I do? I was an expert hacker, but this didn't make any sense. I was just about to push the power down button, but then the sound stopped and the screen went black. Written in the usually comforting green font were the words "HELLO RELLICK"

I screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Quick A/N:**

 **So, being as I'm really new to writing in first person as well as mystery as well as in present day, I'm very open to critique. Specifically, does this story seemed rushed? I'm used to writing longer chapters (if you read my other stories, the chapter are usually about 4K words long) so I'm concerned with how this reads. Also, any tips for writing in first person are greatly appreciated. It seems to be "in" right now so I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon but I'm a bit clueless.**

 **And, of course, thanks so much for reading! I would really appreciate the reviews.**

* * *

Sherlock burst into the room to find the computer cast aside and me in a crumpled heap across from it. "What's going on? Why did you scream?" he asked, his keen eyes scanning the room for anything that could've startled me.

"I don't know!" I exclaimed. "I don't know! I don't know!"

"Stop getting hysterical," he ordered harshly.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, until the metallic taste of blood hit my taste buds. Sherlock swooped down to grab the computer, setting it on the desk. "Very interesting," he murmured, slowly sinking into his desk chair.

I swallowed the little bit of blood I had drew and licked my lips, untangling my legs from under me.

"I don't understand," I said. "We're not connected to the internet."

"Stop getting hysterical," he said again, this time in his usual, impassive voice.

Despite his tone, he was right; I needed to calm down. Sherlock lifted his fingers to the keyboard and paused momentarily before beginning to type. "What are you doing?" I demanded, scooting over. I was still on the floor with my knees to my chest and moved by inching my feet forward and dragging my behind.

Sherlock glanced at me and raised his eyebrows. "Writing back," he answered my question as he finished what he was typing.

"What did you say? Why would you do that?" I stammered.

"Because we might figure something out. Really, Anya, I thought you weren't completely stupid." He said, his eyes not parting with the screen. There was a brief pause before he continues. "What would Rellik say?"

"What?" I asked, startled by his quarry.

"Did you not hear me?" he snapped, clearly growing frustrated with me.

I inched over until I was sitting right next to his chair so I could pear up in the monitor.

 **HELLO RELLIK**

 **WHO ARE YOU?**

 **I SAID HELLO TO RELLIK. I HAVE NO NEED FOR YOU.**

I blinked, realizing why he had asked me what Rellik would say. But, what would Rellik say? When I was alone in my apartment, it was easy – Rellik came naturally. One might think that Rellik and Anya were one in the same, but truth be told they had more differences than similarities. Anya was clumsy, socially inept, weird and shy. Rellik was fierce and cunning, her codes elegant and beautiful.

I hoisted myself to my feet and leaned over Sherlock to reach the keys.

 **WELL HELL THERE. IT'S RELLIK.**

 **IT'S GOOD TO TALK TO YOU RELLIK. I'VE BEEN EAGER TO TALK TO YOU.**

I glanced at Sherlock and he gestured for me to keep writing.

 **MOST PEOPLE CONTACT ME IN OTHER WAYS.**

 **I'M NOT MOST PEOPLE.**

Sherlock pushed back to the keys so suddenly, I had to grip the desk to stay standing.

 **WHO ARE YOU?**

 **TSK TSK TSK… RELLIK.**

Sherlock actually groaned aloud. I bit my lip, beginning to feel my nerves crawl up on me.

 **WHO ARE YOU THEN?**

It was a gamble since Sherlock had just wrote the same thing. The detective didn't question my actions though. It may have made the sentence grammatically incorrect, but it was very northeast American and how I actually spoke.

 **I AM ZERO.**

Zero. The name held heavy in the air even though it wasn't said aloud. I lifted my hand and brought it down many times before I finally wrote my response.

 **HELLO ZERO. IT'S BEEN AWHILE.**

 **LET'S PLAY A GAME.**

Sherlock leaned forward and pyramided his hands.

 **I DON'T LIKE GAMES.**

Sherlock's eyes flicked to me. I shrugged at him and turned my attention back to Zero.

 **THAT'S A LIE.**

 **I DON'T LIKE GAMES.**

 **YOU'VE PLAYED ONE WITH ME BEFORE.**

 **WE WEREN'T PLAYING A GAME.**

I swallowed hard, sinking back to the floor. "What is he talking about?" Sherlock asked. I wonder how much he already knew that the average person wouldn't find as obvious.

"I hacked his computer before. It was just a small job, but Zero's computer is full of information I should've never seen," I explained

"Terrorist groups?" his deep voice interrupted.

"The black market keeps surprisingly detailed records. Zero was in charge of their database," I explained.

"You don't work for the government," Sherlock continued staring, and I wondered if he already had deduced my employer.

The screen flashed again.

 **GOODBYE FOR NOW RELLIK. I HOPE YOU KEEP THIS DRIVE… WOULD HATE TO HAVE TO GET DANTE DIRTY.**

A protective surge pulsed through my stomach as my head snapped to my bag. The skeleton buzzed as it shut down, Sherlock evidently deciding we didn't need to reply anymore. He scowled at the screen. "That was the most idiotic threat I've ever heard," he declared. "Oh don't tell me you're sentimental about your computer."

I didn't answer – he already knew anyway. Instead, I pulled myself to a stand as I took in everything that just happened. We weren't connected to any sort of network, I was sure of that.

"I need to think," I declared aloud, suddenly feeling crowded under Sherlock's gaze. He raised his eyebrows, seemingly surprised by my announcement. "I'll text you later." I was already awkwardly shoving my items back into my bag, ignoring any sense of order. Rushing out the door and down the stairs, not waiting to hear if Sherlock had anything else to say.

Outside it was drizzling. I pulled my hood up and flung my braid into it when I realized it had fallen over my shoulder. Shifting my bag into a more comfortable position and glanced back at the green door before shoving my hands in my front pocket and walking down the sidewalk I didn't have a destination in mind, nor any real sense of direction in this foreign city, I just liked walking. It helped me think, especially walking in New York where everyone was in their own world and the familiarity of the streets offered a comfort like no other.

The precipitation was getting worse the longer I walked, but it was easy to ignore with my mind racing at a pace that would've been more efficient if I had coffee in my system.

I didn't know how much time had passed, but I did notice when my canvas sneakers were soaked through and my hood was no longer keeping my head dry. I looked around for some appropriate shelter and perked up when I saw a small café across the street.

Running now, I stumbled slightly as I opened the door and stepped onto a rug with significantly more traction than the sidewalk, causing everyone in the tiny shop to cast me odd looks. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, but I forced myself forward to the counter, my shoes squeaking from the heavy amount of water.

The woman on the other side of the counter in a pinstripe shirt and an orange apron. Her shining red hair and bright green eyes reminded me of my mother. Even her facial features seemed similar. "Anya!" she greeted me in a cheery voice, creating an odd combination of a squeaky tone and a British accent.

I forced a smile on my face, realizing the obvious reason she looked so much like Katherine was she was one of my distant family members I had meant yesterday. "Hi," I replied, forcing my lips into a smile and running through the list of names in my head I hadn't remembered too well.

"Sarah," she offered, sensing my stall. "I know you meant a lot of people yesterday. Would you like anything?"

My mind screamed the word coffee over and over again in my head. "Can I please get a hazelnut macchiato with an extra shot of espresso and an extra shot of hazelnut in the largest size you have. Almond milk if you have it, soy if not."

The look Sarah gave me suggested I ordered in Klingon. I blinked, trying to hide my introvert panic. "Um, how about a cappuccino?" I offered sheepishly.

She smiled and nodded. "Are you coming back to Nana's today?" she asked as she began preparing my drink.

"Maybe. I actually need to talk to Sherlock again," I answered, leaning on the counter. Just the thought of going back to my grandmother's house was giving my anxiety.

"Katherine said that you were going to see him today. Did it go well? He seemed a little… odd when I meant him."

"It went fine," I said, keeping my answer short as I didn't want to give details of my morning. "I just needed to get some air and coffee."

Sarah turned on one of her machines, creating a loud noise before finishing my drink. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help," she said, sliding my cappuccino across the counter. "And I would stay away from Sherlock if at all possible. I know Nana likes him, but you can't be too careful around men like that. I've heard he's a psychopath."

I nodded curtly and grabbed my drink. It had come in a little, china cup with a saucer instead of the recycled cardboard I was used to. I took my cappuccino to a corner booth on the empty side of the shop. I wondered if I stayed in London for too long, would Sarah come to find me odd just as she did Sherlock?

I pulled Dante out of my bag so I could file the thoughts I had sorted through on the damp streets. It was how I worked best – typing my information and storing it on Virgo's hard drive with simple code words so I could find it. I didn't have the best memory, certainly not the worst, but I had so many thoughts to keep track of.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I scowled at the taste. It wasn't even close to the Sumatra blend I knew and loved, but I forced the grimy liquid down my throat before I began typing. Dante clicked happily below my fingers and the sound and feel were enormously comforting. Of course, I would prefer to put the information directly into Virgo, but Dante was all I had available right now.

I didn't think to look up when the bell to the coffee house door rang. It was one of those sounds that you just expect to hear so it just blended in with the background noise. That was until the shadow of someone much too close bared over my table.

I turned my gaze up to see the consulting detective my grandmother admired so much looming over me.


	4. Chapter 4

"I feel like I should be surprised that you followed me, but I'm not," I grumbled, glowering up at his keen eyes. I tried to sound witty and strong, keeping Rellik's attitude.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and pulled out the chair across from me to sit down. "You seem bothered by it," he observed.

"I'm not," I said, taking an aggressive sip of my drink followed by trying to suppress a gag.

He rolled his eyes. "Please," he said, "you're twitching and your eyes are as wide as they were this morning when you found out someone hacked your computer. I assure you, Anya, I mean you no harm and I won't go ratting you out to any of your employers."

I swallowed hard; he had seen through my act. I shouldn't have tried to be Rellik without the protection of a screen.

"I didn't follow you, by the way," he continued. "It was just easy to deduce which way you had went and where you would be when the rain started getting worse."

I let my eye wander over him, now noticing his hair was wet and sticking to his forehead while droplets remained on his coat. I had only known him for a day, but I knew better that to question his deductions. Him finding me here right now still made me slightly uneasy… alright, really uneasy, but I pushed my nerves down as I really did need to talk to him.

"There's only one way he could've hacked into that computer. It's a technologically ancient device that hasn't been used since the 80s and early 90s," I began. "I've never seen it before, but I just remember reading about it as a child when it was still somewhat relevant," I explained, leaning forward in my chair. "From what I understand the NSA sometimes uses it, but for the most part it's a long forgotten technique. It uses radio waves… it's crude but efficient. The only problem with my theory is that it's only been used to gather information, not fully take over someone else's system."

"As far as you know," Sherlock pointed out. I took another long sip of my drink. It was halfway gone and I was starting to feel like myself again. "But, what happened today is possible with radio waves, you're saying?"

"Well yes," I answered. "And there's really no other way he could've done that. It just seems so strange."

"When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be truth," he said, glancing out the window at the passersby. "What can you tell me about Zero?"

"I don't really know anything else except what I already told you this morning," I replied, forcing the last bit of cappuccino down my throat. It may have not been to my tastes, but it was well worth it to have coffee pursing through my body again. It wasn't as strong as I wanted, but it was still there. "If I had Virgo, I might have more information."

Then I frowned as something occurred to me that I hadn't thought of previously. "Zero planned this. He planned me getting involved. There was no other reason to bring my grandmother into this. Zero knows who I am."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Why else would I have agreed to this case?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You said it was because you owed my grandmother a favor."

"No, the favor was working _with_ you. I took the case because it was an eight," he said, sitting back in his chair and turning his gaze back to me.

"An eight?" I repeated, folding my arms across my chest, seeing all too clearly where this was going.

"My system for rating how interesting cases are," he explained. "No one had a reason to kill Mrs. Hammond as she was already dying." He spoke of my grandmother's cancer more casually than I did. "There had to be some ulterior motive. That turned out to be you. More specifically getting you to come to London."

"Why London?" I asked, trying to ignore the nervous knots in my stomach.

"Because Zero is in this city and he wants to play games with you," Sherlock's eyes seem to glow with insane wonder at the prospect. "And now the game is on!" he whipped out his phone and began to text furiously.

"So this is all for revenge?" I mumbled, feeling like I could vomit the cappuccino back up.

"No, it's not like that at all," Sherlock replied, a hint of aggravation on his voice. "You entertained him like no one else had ever done before. He finally found someone on his caliber."

"So this is really just a game to him?" I felt a surge of anger curse though me at the through of someone doing all this strictly for their own enjoyment.

"It is. He's probably been waiting his whole life to find you. And you have to play his game."

"No I don't!" I declared louder than I should have in the tiny café. Sarah looked at me from her spot over the counter and tilted her head, accessing the situation. I blushed and lowered my voice. "I can leave. I can go back to New York right now. Fuck him and his games."

Sherlock rolled his blue orbs for the millionth time since he met me. "He knows who your grandmother is. Do you really think he can't figure it out in America? It would just be a slight inconvenience to him and he would probably end up threatening another family member. You can't hide behind Rellik with him.

I bit my lip, knowing that he was right. "So, I play his game," I said, trying to stay calm.

Sherlock stood and buttoned his coat, gesturing for me to do the same. "No Anya… you beat him at it."

I swallowed. "You'll help?"

"I would never miss a case this interesting. Come on, we need to get back to Baker Street."

I followed without hesitation, tucking Dante away and feeling Sarah's curious stares at my back.

The rain had slowed down minimally, so I was rather relieved when Sherlock hailed down a cab to take us back. One thing that I noticed, now that I had coffee back in my system, was how much cleaner London taxis were than New York ones. On the rare occasion I used to one, which was not too often as I usually walked or took the metro, it always smelled of blood and weed. This cab smelled of sanitizer, and, while not the most pleasant of scents, it was still much better than what she was accustomed to.

The ride was short, having me wonder whether or not I had walked around in circles. A short man, though still a good five inches shorter than myself, stood outside 221B with his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket and his expression stuck in a scowl. I followed Sherlock out of the cab, surprised when he offered me his hand for assistance, but I took it nonetheless.

"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" the short man bellowed. "You text me to come urgently and you're not even home!" His face was growing a bit red with rage.

"Yes, well I caught up in a conversation with our client," Sherlock said it like it was obvious.

I crossed my arms over my chest and shifted my weight onto one leg, annoyed that he would try to blame me; I didn't know someone was waiting!

"What client? Since when do you meet clients outside of your flat?" John demanded, following Sherlock into the home. The consulting detective sighed and pointed back to me.

In all my awkward glory, I brought my hand up in a wave and gave a toothy grin. The short man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I'm sorry Miss…"

"Anya," I offered, bringing my hand down. I wished he would step out of the doorway so I could get out of the rain.

"Anya, this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. John, this is Mrs. Hammond's granddaughter Anya."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," John said, stepping to the side so I could enter.

"Nice to meet you too," I mumbled, walking into 221B for the second time that day. I can't remember the last time I had to meet do many people in such a short amount of time.

"Anya is not a fan of familiarities," Sherlock said bluntly. My face flushed and I opened my mouth, trying to find the appropriate thing to say but words failed me. He gave me a sympathetic smile as he hung his coat and walked into the den to build up a fire. I wondered if it would be appropriate to take off my soaked shoes.

"So, what do we do first?" I asked, shuffling me feet, still in the entranceway.

"We must find Zero," Sherlock answered the obvious, plopping down in his chair with a spider-like elegance.

"Yes, but how?" I asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You're the hacker," he pointed out.

John finished getting the fire going and moved to the chair across from Sherlock. I bit the inside of my cheek indecisively and slowly walked to the fire sinking to the floor in front of it. I leaned against the metal screen and pulled my knees to my chest. The heat from the hearth warmed my body and began to dry my clothes.

"Would you like a chair?" John asked, making to stand, so I quickly held up my hand to stop him.

"I'm fine on the floor," I answered, hugging my knees tighter.

"John, I'll take a cuppa," Sherlock said as if the doctor had offered.

John huffed. "How about you tell me what's going on?" he grumbled, though he stood up to start the water. "Miss Anya?"

"Just Anya," I corrected. "And no thank you."

Sherlock's gaze focused on me and he pyramided his hands to his face. I couldn't tell whether he was examining me or just thinking.

"We should find Zero."

The look he gave me could've killed the grim reaper. "I don't mean in person," I explained, hoping he still wasn't mentally criticizing me. "We need to find him virtually."

John returned to his chair and handed Sherlock his cup of tea. "Who's Zero?" he asked.

Sherlock's eyes didn't leave me as he explained, "Anya's arch enemy."

John's eyebrows shot up and I rolled my eyes. "This isn't a book," I stated.

"Do you really think books are the only place villains exist?" the detective said casually as he sipped his tea.

"No, of course not. But it's the only place true heroes exist. The heroes of this world always have an ulterior motive."

"Even you?" he quipped.

I finally met his eyes. "I'm no hero. I'm a hacker."

The corners of Sherlock's lips turned up in a smile. "Well, I can assure you that I have no ulterior motives, Anya."

"Besides stroking your own ego," John interrupted. "So Zero is a hacker too, I take it?"

"Is that what you think?" I asked Sherlock, knowing it was rude to ignore the Doctor, but unable to just act like Sherlock's words were something you could just brush over. "That you're some kind of Dragon Slayer?"

His dark eyebrows shot up for a second as if I had surprised him before returning to his usual impassive gaze. "You're the second person to say something along those lines."

The doctor coughed loudly to get both of our attentions. I each snapped our heads in his direction, and I now realized how ridiculous we both must look. "Why is Zero after Anya?" John asked.

"He worked for a black market trade. I hacked into his system for one of my clients," I answered, hugging my knees tighter as I wondered how many times I would have to explain that today. Considering the nature of my work, two already felt like too many.

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair causing Sherlock to make an over-exaggerated sigh. "She's not a criminal, John!" he stated, exasperated, and I understood. John was not liking the idea of helping someone in my life work. "For God's sake, she takes down things like the black market of England!"

I sighed and brought my fingers to my temples to rub them. "It was pretty stupid," I admitted. "When I started doing this, I said I would never get involved with anything to that degree. But, I kept getting better and better so my cliental kept getting bigger and bigger."

"Now is not the time for hindsight," Sherlock scolded. I felt my face twist into a dissatisfied expression, though I knew he was right. He continued, "What you need to do now is find Zero."

"I just said that and you looked at me like I was an idiot," I mumbled.

"Well, you are an idiot," Sherlock said, springing to his feet. "Come now, get out your computer."

I looked at John who offered me a sympathetic smile. "I think," I paused, gauging my next words and the reaction I was expecting. "I think I'll go back to the hotel and figure it out from there." Unwrapping myself from the tight ball I managed to curl myself into, I stood up.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said sternly. "If Zero knows who your grandmother is, it'll be rather easy for him to find you in the city. You'll need to stay here."

Both mine and John's jaws dropped, though for slightly different reasons. "I… what… but… absolutely not," I sputtered out, crossing my arms in front of my chest in a protective manner.

"Do you have a better solution?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm not staying here!" I said firmly, stomping my foot for good measure.

"Stop being childish. John will go with you to collect your belongings and check you out of that dreadful inn," he continues as if this was the most normal offer in the world.

"I said no!"

"And I said to stop being to childish."

"Sherlock!" John interjected. "You can't force someone to stay in your flat!"

"I'm not forcing her to do anything!" he insisted.

"I could've fooled me," I grumbled.

John glanced at me for a second before turning back to Sherlock. Each of us had our gaze set determinedly.

"Fine," the consulting detective gave in. "But you still need to do your work here."

"Why?" I challenged.

"Because I have some additional jobs for you, and I want to be around when you do them," he unfolded his arms and walked to the window.

"Jobs?" I deadpanned. "You mean jobs for Rellik?"

"Who's Rellik?" John asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Sherlock beat me to it. "Rellik is my new sidekick."


End file.
